Wheat + Tares

The Certainty That Uproots | Parables Unsealed Chapter 11

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Here’s chapter eleven. The parable that got inverted to justify exactly what Jesus was forbidding. They turned the master’s patience into permission to purge. Made themselves the reapers. Built the Inquisition on a parable that said “put your hand down.”

This is what happens when you can’t tolerate the master’s timeline.

THE WHEAT AND TARES

You see the weed.

Right there, tangled in the good wheat. Three rows in, second from the east fence. You weren’t looking for it. You just happened to glance over and there it was—wrong stem, wrong color, wrong everything.

Your hand moves before you think.

Not to pull. Not yet. Just to touch. To confirm what your eyes already know.

It doesn’t belong.

The wheat around it is pure. The master planted good seed in prepared soil. You watched him do it. This thing growing here is contamination. Sabotage. It will steal nutrients. It might spread. Every hour it stays is an hour of corruption spreading through clean ground.

You straighten up, already rehearsing the conversation. The master will want to know immediately. He’ll be grateful you caught it early. He’ll send you back with instructions to pull it before dark.

Your feet are moving toward him before you’ve finished the thought.

“Master.” Your voice comes out tighter than you intended. “The field. There’s a weed growing in the wheat.”

He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t even look concerned.

“I know.” He says it like he’s commenting on the weather. “An enemy did this while I slept.”

The admission should horrify him. Instead he’s calm. Almost resigned.

But you’re not resigned. You’re seeing the field in your mind—how many more might be hiding. How fast they could spread. How much damage they’re doing right now while you stand here talking.

“Let us pull them.” The words come out like an offer but feel like a demand. “We can fix this before it spreads.”

You can already feel it. Your fingers closing around the stem. The satisfying resistance, then the give. Roots tearing free from soil they were never meant to touch. The field purified. The contamination removed. Everything restored to what it should be.

He’s looking at you now. Not at the field. At you.

“No.”

The word is quiet. Final.

“If you pull the weeds now, you’ll uproot the wheat with them.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. “But we can see which—”

“Their roots have grown together.” His voice is patient but immovable. “You cannot separate them without destroying both. Let them grow together until harvest. Then the reapers will know which is which.”

He’s walking away.

You’re standing there with your hands still shaped for pulling.

This is the moment you cannot forgive.

You saw the contamination. You were willing to act. You had the zeal, the certainty, the courage to do what needed doing.

And he said no.

Not “wait a little while.” Not “let me think about it.” Just no.

So you decide he doesn’t understand the urgency. Or he’s being too merciful. Or he’s testing whether you’ll obey when obedience makes no sense.

You’ve seen this play out ten thousand times across two thousand years.

The Inquisition wasn’t staffed by monsters. It was staffed by you. By servants who saw corruption in the field and couldn’t abide the master’s timeline. Who knew—absolutely knew—they could tell wheat from tares right now, who cared what the farmer said about waiting.

Every witch trial. Every heresy hunt. Every purity spiral that fractured a community. Every person expelled for contamination that later turned out to be wheat.

All of it started with someone seeing a weed and deciding the master’s “no” didn’t apply to their discernment.

The field is littered with wheat that was uprooted by hands that were certain they were saving it.

Your hand is reaching right now.

Not in a field. In your community. Your family. Your church. Your movement.

You see someone who doesn’t believe quite right. Doesn’t speak the correct language. Associates with questionable people. Shows signs that maybe, possibly, they might be contamination.

And you cannot tolerate it. Not even temporarily. Not even knowing separation comes at harvest.

Your certainty feels like faithfulness. Your urgency feels like love. Your willingness to pull feels like courage.

It’s none of those things.

It’s the servant’s presumption that your eyes can see what only harvest reveals. That your hands are steady enough for work the farmer called destructive. That your timing is better than his.

The weed is real. The contamination is real. The enemy planted it deliberately.

But your hand will destroy the field trying to save it.

The farmer’s command wasn’t complicated.

Let both grow together until harvest.

Not because the weeds don’t matter. Because your judgment is premature and your hands are not the reaper’s hands and you cannot see what tangled roots will come up with what you’re pulling.

Harvest comes. Separation happens. Justice arrives when the wheat is ripe and the tares are obvious to all.

Not obvious to you right now. Obvious to all. Undeniable. Clear.

But you can’t wait for that. You need to act now. To purify now. To prove your faithfulness by purging now.

So you reach for the stem you’re certain is wrong. You pull before harvest because waiting feels like cowardice.

And wheat comes up in your hand along with what you thought was a weed.

Every. Single. Time.

Your task is not to uproot.

Your task is to ripen. To become so unmistakably wheat that no reaper would confuse you for a tare. To let your roots go so deep that when the sorting comes, you remain.

And when you see contamination—real contamination, not imagined—trust that the farmer scheduled the harvest for a day you don’t control.

The most dangerous thing in the field isn’t the weed. It’s your hand, already shaped for pulling.

What are you reaching for right now?

<3EKO

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The most dangerous thing in the field isn’t the weed.

It’s your hand, already reaching.